


This Work of Art

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-07-31
Updated: 1998-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 14:54:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11337762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: A vignette, a lovingly detailed word picture of one of our favorite subjects.





	This Work of Art

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

This Work of Art By SpookyBear

11/18/97  
***WARNING! NC-17 m/m slash. Although this does not contain extremely graphic situations, it is heavily implied. If you are under 18 or offended by this sort of thing, go away! You have been warned.***  
OK to archive etc as long as disclaimers are intact.  
Character belongs to Chris Carter, Fox and 1013 productions

* * *

This Work of Art  
By SpookyBear

It started with the top of the head, covered with the full, dark strands that no matter how well prepared, always seemed to stray by mid-morning, poking out sideways in a comical way that defied the grooming techniques and rules that were expected. Sometimes it behaved and lay in perfect waves like damask grain just aching to be touched, to be played with, until it again resumed the unkempt Elfin fur that fit its owner so well. All conceivable natural colors romp together to create the palette of dark chestnut that glittered with golden hues when revealed under the luminary glory of daylight.

Next, the high flesh of the forehead that shows so many emotions with its supple movements. Surprise, shock, concern, anger, amusement, the gamut of feeling expressed all with the raising or lowering of the eyebrows. Oh, and how to describe those streaks of micro-fine hairs that were like little rivers in their fluidity. Rising and falling in rhythm with the movement of the mouth and face, they play impishly, shielding the insightful orbs below. And the languid, sensuous fluttering of the lengthy fibrous eye-lashes that conceal momentarily the flecks of green, blue, brown and black beneath. Those eyes, so filled with wonderment and pain, capturing the youth and beauty yet divulging of ancient mysteries and the wisdom of an old soul. The eyes alone could be worth volumes of sacred tomes and yet, no matter how much was written about them, their true essence would never be captured by such a pitiful means of communication as language.

So onto the nose, with its graceful slope ending in a kissable roundness, flaring just slightly at the end to give the regal look, like the beak of a hawk. Sharp and yet not too harsh, it is what many first see and much to their uneasiness, are intimidated by. The nose, knows - as the phrase goes. The lips would twinge upwards slightly at that silly play on words as if to say, "you should laugh because you're meant to." Then they would lose expression again to slump into their passive state, unsure if it ever was funny.

The lips hold the true longing of the soul. Whereas the eyes may show much, it is the lips that give it away. Full, sultry and expectantly, they form acrobatic signals with graceful undulations. A hesitant tongue darts out between to moisten the pouting folds and make them glisten. Ivory on red, briefly, as a bite of frustration harnesses the lower petal and suddenly releases it again. The fascination with the lips and mouth; an obsessive, erotic meditation in which the spirit could be trapped in for eternity, swimming in the scarlet vestibule until a new movement rescues the wandering humor and shows it another attraction.

Cheekbones, jaw and chin so delicately fine, yet strong. Their study could be a lesson in angles and arcs interrupted only by the small round mole that resides near the mouth. This one blemish does not mar the appearance, but adds character such as a fine artist will sometimes purposefully create a flaw in his work so that the beauty of the piece does not affront the gods in its perfection. Temptation reaches out to trace the path from below one ear, down the trail to the small valley of the chin, back up to the other ear and descending again, to rest on the cleft, to place a finger just below the cliff and gently tilt upwards exposing the full countenance to unyielding scrutiny.

Ears like intricate seashells laced with ribbons of cartilage almost resembling a knot of Celtic design move upwards slightly as a question passes; tied to the brows and forehead, always following on an invisible chain. Agile and flowing curves settle against the neck with heavy lobes that scream to be suckled and licked. The long, majestic neck, artfully bedecked with tendons acts as a pedestal in which to display the rest of the head. This neck, supported on either side by trimmed shoulders, not overly large or imposing, but finely shaped which speak of a silent strength. The shoulders give way to sculpted arms lightly dusted with impalpable hairs, arms that have definite shape and yet are soft and gentle enough that one can envision them wrapping around to hold in a peaceful embrace. The end of the arms graced with elegant fingers which speak of aristocratic blood or artistic impulse.

The torso is always seen without crude clothing to cover the chiseled chest. Its definition and design found only on the slick paper of beauty magazines or on the statues of the gods. The smooth expanse of peach marble rolls and dips with nature's contoured arrangement coming to a point on each breast that begs attention. The little peaks, each as expressive as the lips that long to touch them, point outward with anticipation. They harden and soften, depending on the temperature or possessor's moods. The lure of them sometimes traps the ministrations of the faithful, causing forgetfulness of the rest. The strong remembers that further down, lays the real prize and moves onward.

The abdomen is unmarked save for the one small pit where life begins and the eternal connection between mother and child is formed. It dips inward, a perfect spot to trap an unwary traveler and keep from hurrying to fast. The belly is smooth and flat with only a little roundness near its base, revealing the age to be past adolescence and well into adulthood. Almost, almost - the seductive prize calls, but not yet. Save the best for last.

Skipping down; the eyes and lips above pout for a moment, but with the promise of more to come, they resign and allow the ritual to continue.

Thighs slightly spread in the constant invitation, announcing the opening that waits not-so-patiently for consideration. One area, forever marked by the rude penetration of a bullet, puckers slightly pinkish. It no longer causes pain, only a dull feel of pressing against scar tissue. Fingers follow the sinewy muscles kept in shape by the vigilant ceremony of swimming and running attached to sturdy calves and ending in feet that alone are works of art; tracing the heel, instep and the outline of every toe.

Oh, but only half of the body has been reached, for as interesting the front is, the back has its own eccentricities. Back up the calves and thighs, ruffling backwards the curling strands of brown hair, the trail leads to the rounded cheeks of the buttocks. Each cheek, making up a good sized handhold, has a slight dimple, a place to slide one finger across when grasping. The cleft longs to be parted and exposed. Upwards past the slim hips to the back, embellished with the bumps of the spine, the broad areas of perfect tissue yield to the touch. The malleable flesh rolls and smoothes with the rippling of muscles underneath as the shoulders roll and arms stretch. A virtuoso tattoo artist could create a picture of utmost beauty on the back to follow the undulating movements but no artist would want to destroy such a perfect canvas with color.

Sliding past the back again to rest on the shoulders, the desire is to place a hand on the back of the neck and tilt the head backwards to expose the mouth with its parted lips and hot breath, but the prize awaits.

It has not been patient, but yearns upwards, the blood filling every artery and vessel. It springs out from a pillow of downy wool, thicker and courser than the exposed hair, but just as alluring. Hanging below are the twin sacs of wrinkled flesh, heavy with seed and unfulfilled lust. They dangle, one slightly lower than the other, longing to be cupped in the hands and rubbed delicately together. A taste of salt and a smell of musk surround them. Following the crevice upwards, they meet the engorged shaft outlined with vein , cyan in color.

A single seam on the underside shows the path to completion, pointing to the arrow at the top. Trailing the edge of the glans, a faint scar can be seen, a scar as old as the body, given when the flesh was new to the outside world in a rite as old as religion. One could imagine how different the organ would have looked had the excess skin not been trimmed away. The top, a soft shade of purplish red, springy to the touch, glistens with milky moisture. Soon, it says. The need to view, to touch, to hold and suckle this member is so great, its purpose to be enveloped. The desire is to pay homage to it alone and to ignore the rest, but one knows that complete pleasure can be gained by combining the various parts in a complex ballet. So, the whole body is viewed and toyed with, the patterns always changing, new ways and fresh ideas being explored. To boldly go where no man has gone before - maybe. He didn't know for sure and had never asked. For now, it didn't matter. At this moment, this one was his alone.

This work of art was simply called Fox.

***THE END***

e-mail to: - flamers not welcome!


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